


And Your Little Dog, Too

by mysterioustranger



Category: One Piece
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Includes Sakazuki and a poodle, Introspection, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, No pun intended, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28276260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterioustranger/pseuds/mysterioustranger
Summary: Borsalino will cover this Issho with interest and praise, show the quiet young man that he is so secure in his love for Sakazuki, in the role as the light of his life, that he doesn't care or worry about Issho's magnetic pull on his attention.Nah, he doesn't. It's good he doesn't.Kill him with niceness.-In which Sakazuki has made two friends, and Borsalino is fond of neither.
Relationships: Akainu | Sakazuki/Kizaru | Borsalino
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	And Your Little Dog, Too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fourleaves_Clover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fourleaves_Clover/gifts).



> Hello! This is a present for Chiaki aka Fourleaves_Clover. I wanted it to be something a bit more feel-good than my usual stuff, and include Marines being lovable dorks, a character interaction that we both would like to see, and a few headcanons of hers. I made an experiment and decided to stay closer to the way she sees the characters, including their backgrounds and voices, so it deviates some from my usual depiction of Sakazuki and Borsalino.
> 
> The prompt I chose was "you can save the world, but the world can't have you". Also the pettiness is strong in this one.

No matter how endless the possibilities, how changing and riddled with odds the waves are, it’s always a different kind of pleasure to be sailing back somewhere.

Leaning a forearm against the front mast of his assigned ship, hands clasped around the covers of the book he’s been devouring, Borsalino squints happily at sight of the nearing island crowned by a Marine base. The midday clouds framing it are patterned to infinity as if they’d been raked by some celestial being.

He pauses at the odd thought. Maybe he’s getting a bit too carried away with the scenes painted in his mind’s eye when he reads. Truth be told, he’s barely able to contain his grin at anything remotely gleeful; the prospect of stepping into the base and wrapping himself in the broad arms of the Vice Admiral in charge is almost too much to bear - for it’s the man, rather than the building, that he’s come to call home.

He lowers his look at the pages again, tries to concentrate. But instead, his brain is calculating distances. Could he propel himself forward and phase into Sakazuki’s office _now_? That would leave the ship without a commander, but he isn’t making an outrageous effort anyway: he has sat at the rear through the trip, enjoying the read. Ah, but Sakazuki would find that a double offense, the fact that Borsalino would dare to use his powers not only frivolously, but to escape his duties.

Patience. It's just a matter of minutes until vacation. 

His nostrils suddenly catch a whiff of cigarette smoke and the urge for nicotine prickles his throat. 

“Whatcha reading, Vice Admiral?”

He turns around to the young woman, the uniformed coat at her shoulders beaten by the wind. She smiles through the fingers in a “v” holding a cigarette over her lips. She’s slank but muscular, would be pretty without trying if she didn’t insist on disgracing her hair. But it’s the way she likes it; pointing it out would only cause her to roll her eyes and double down on her fashion choices. 

“Ohh, Bell-Mère... It’s…” he pauses, drops his voice a notch. “It’s supernatural _ro-omance_ …”

The officer lets out a hearty laugh. When he doesn’t break his polite smile into one, she raises an eyebrow.

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry,” she scratches at the back of her half-shaved head. “Really? You don’t seem the type.”

“Aaah... Is that a bad _thing…_?” he rubs his stubble between a thumb and an index finger, and she mirrors his grin. “I will take that as a compliment.”

“Uh-oh… Don’t throw me overboard, sir.”

“I suppose it’s your first _wa-arning_ … maybe a cigarette as a penance?”

She flippantly curses under her breath when she hands him the almost empty package. Borsalino finishes it remorselessly. It’s only fair. The cadets and young underlings ransack his pockets empty wherever they are on a mission, and the last Reverie was no exception. Protecting World Nobles as they decide on their lands’ matters and trickle their truths is, in practice, the kind of job that gives many young bored Marines entirely too much empty time. 

As Bell-Mère’s slow clap of a string of steps moves away on deck, he flicks his lighter open, shelters the flame with a big hand, inhales and exhales. Some higher ranks don’t care for bonding with the ducklings, but he doesn’t think showing his humanity makes him weaker. Just look at Sakazuki - one second casting the imposing image of an impenetrable man of stone, as ruthless and blunt as though every second wasted were a failure… and, the next second, scooping up a little fluffball of Dog in his massive arm and deciding to keep it. 

Borsalino narrows his eyes. Now that is the part he has not been, exactly, looking forward to.

The acquaintanceship between Vice Admiral Sakazuki and the poodle-esque mongrel he’d creatively named “Dog” had started shortly before Borsalino’s last departure. He'd never forget opening the door while on Sakazuki’s little house in town to see the mighty Marine he called a husband soaked to the bone in rain, the weight of a little shape poking through the front pocket of his hoodie and a muzzle peeking out from its side.

“ _Ooh, Saka-san, it's pouring…” a pause. “That’s a dog.”_

_“No shit to both.”_

_“We-ell I think this is great for your… confidence… but those need food and walks and space to sleep…?”_

_“I’ll have it sleep on your half of the bed if you don't shut it.”_

_“Aw, what a good heart you have…”_

On that night a few months ago, Sakazuki had plopped that trembling thing under the shower and, after some dabbing and patting and untangling, the indistinct ball of fur had revealed two ears that pricked up at every noise, a curled tail that wagged, and little, black, vivid eyes, looking at everything with renewed joy. 

He imagines that seeing the massive Vice Admiral steadily walking around the base he rules with an iron fist, followed by that trotting, panting white thing smaller than the iron fist in question, has raised more than one eyebrow or even elicited stifled laughter. But the truth is that Sakazuki doesn't give a damn, and he is feared and admired enough to erase any traces of disrespect without as much as a look.

He supposes he loves the great soldier as much as he loves the greater idiot hidden inside. 

* * *

Sakazuki has his ambitions set on the next opening for the rank of Admiral, and everyone knows the question of him earning is a _when_ and not an _if_. But this next victory won’t come to him, to them, effortlessly; and when Borsalino arrives early and waltzes into his office without knocking, he could swear he finds Sakazuki in the same position he’d left him months ago. His face stern, focused; his coat proudly hung where he can let the ideogram at its back inspire him.

At Borsalino’s appearance, Sakazuki looks up and cocks an eyebrow almost imperceptibly.

“You are early.”

A bit of cynicism tugs at the corners of Borsalino’s eyes.

“Aah, Sakazuki, I know you wanted to meet us at the dock,” he answers nonchalantly, striving to think the best out of the other Vice Admiral’s harshness. “…But the current was favourable and we couldn't _wa-ait…_ I couldn’t.” 

In one split second, he has blinked out of his tangible form and reappeared in a flash in front of Sakazuki, grabbing the sides of his chair and spinning it around to face him. And after the first, swift move, he slows down and approaches gradually, letting the startlement wear down, enjoying the feeling of possibility before the contact itself. He smells of subtle cologne, the skin on Sakazuki’s jaw slightly rough when he nuzzles his lips against it - he's shaved that very morning.

"Oh, you'd even made yourself pretty for me…" 

"I always-" the rest of his excuse is muffled by Borsalino's lips, and Sakazuki actually keeps trying to talk before surrendering. 

He always needs some time to adjust after a long absence, but soon it will be as though none had passed. Borsalino will forgive that he's kept clutching a pen in his hand during the first exchange, will try not to distract him too hard during the next few days, as long as he’s allowed to hover over him and maybe to reclaim his attention by way of _increasingly subtle_ displays whenever he really, really needs it. He’s on vacation after all, and he has no other pets to keep him company.

Speaking of which…

Borsalino peers at the corner, where, between bookshelves, he remembers a makeshift bed for Dog in the form of an old blanket - soon both fetid and scattered with cotton, the entrails of a poor pillow that had been mercilessly chewed; as were the corners of the sofa and bed back at his place - but there's nothing to see there anymore.

Borsalino tilts his head, his hands falling at the sides of Sakazuki's shoulders.

" _Ooh…_ Where's the dog?" 

"Rehomed,” the other man snaps back. “You got your way. I had no time for that."

Out of the corner of his eye, Borsalino does scan Sakazuki’s face for any variations on his expression, or lack thereof.

He will admit he had felt compelled by that furry thing as the joy came back to its little bright eyes, the bold tension of its little paws when it stood up and danced. For all of the first few days, anyway. 

But he’d soon realised that he liked the _idea_ of the dog, not so much the thing itself, and the feeling was mutual. He liked walking it on his breaks, and striking conversation about how it had been found and rescued. But the whining was like nails on a chalkboard, so was the string of drilling barks whenever Borsalino appeared in place - and finding one of his hats and moccasins reduced to a bunch of bits of grey fabric and leather had given him the impulse to laser that living mop out of existence. 

But he won't say _I told you so_. Maybe later he'll remind Sakazuki that he did not, in fact, say _I told you so_. 

Instead, he lets out a non-committal hum. Hops away, straightening the folds of his suit, fixing his tie.

"I'll see myself out… I don't want to distract my Admiral," he smiles dumbly, knowing the effect of his words, and notices Sakazuki glancing reluctantly at him. When he leans over, a kiss which should have been soft and brief turns hungry. He caresses the side of Sakazuki’s forearm, hard with muscle, hardly able to wait until the shift is over. 

"Enough," the commanding Vice Admiral says, pulling back on his chair, and forbids any further distractions by waving a big, rough hand. "Enough. I need to get this finished."

Borsalino grins. Seeing Sakazuki write floods him with good memories -

(The many evenings spent writing under the orange glow in the decrepit storehouses and eaten away apartments they called home, Borsalino a patient and caring teacher, loving to see himself in Sakazuki’s eyes - wary but reverent, sensing the depths of his abstract knowledge - and those are days long past days past now, but they did plant the seed of their present, of them, of their pursuit of justice and something akin to revenge, together.) 

\- but still, his job is so all-consuming. Justice is a harsh mistress. Almost literally a mistress, for them. 

He chuckles dumbly to himself. As if. 

It's then that his eyes land on the report Sakazuki is writing. At reading the words _recommendation for a promotion, Vice Admiral,_ and _Logia,_ his smile falls at the corners. 

* * *

Sakazuki's handwriting stays in his mind's eye as he exits the base. The sunny world outside is relegated to the background. He only sees the quaint, if dirty, tiles of the old district as he overthinks and strolls, a bit too fast for someone without a particular destination. 

He hadn’t really pondered on how many recommendations Sakazuki has written since they enlisted and started working their way up, but if he had to guess, it would be few… to none. Praise, especially praise that is accounted for in official records, is scarce where Sakazuki is concerned. Even for Borsalino.

 _I mean, it's wonderful that someone has impressed him that much,_ he tells himself, and doubts the words as soon as he's found them. 

And there is the issue with the matter-of-fact dismissal of Dog.

The final call was on Sakazuki, for sure. But it was no secret that Borsalino never really related to that little critter. And it had known. It preferred Sakazuki, always seeking his hand. Maybe he had known, too.

Borsalino’s head has always been in the clouds, a little too wise. Concerned with matters all too abstract, too human. Even a person who only ever sees what's in front of them can, at least, meet him halfway. But not a Dog. 

He finds himself at a familiar corner of town. Having been stationed at the nearby Marine Base when he was younger, the way to his favourite tavern is burned into his long-term memory: so is the rich, oaty smell of brewery, the entrance of twisted iron, its familial but classical furniture, the round varnished tables sticky after foam has overflowed the jars of beer a few times too many. As a young man he'd drink generously, but always stay a bit behind the crowd. It kept him pleasantly fuzzy, but slightly alert, still able to enjoy the many interesting times that came about. There was, of course, lots of flirting and one-night-stands that kept his mind away from the one he had wanted and never thought he could have.

But today, upon entering the bar, the looks are turned in the opposite direction - the majority of the crowd is hunched over one table. Gamblers, the ambience heated over a game of cards or dice perhaps. Over the steady hum of conversation, a young soldier explodes into laughter. 

"Can't believe it," another, a scarred blond whom he recognizes as one captain Cancer, keeps calling as he buries his hands under his sunglasses in shame. "Can't fucking believe it." 

"Oh, hey, Borsalino," a familiar voice calls out before he feels the weight of Kuzan's arm around his shoulders, all tipsy smile and messy hair framing his long face. Borsalino switches his own default grin back on.

“Oooh, Kuzan, It has been _sooome_ time… how are _you_?”

“Oh, you know… lots of stuff to do,” Kuzan shrugs, and, at the fact that he looks anything but busy, a bit of Borsalino’s smile turns genuine.

They sit at the bar on two stools, their giant forms all but completely concealing them, and signal over at the bartender for two jars of beer. Soon, glass is clacking against glass. At the next table, a white-haired man and a woman in red lipstick, both young, both smoking in more ways than one, scan the place with the awkward look of newbies overthinking their moves. Kuzan eyes them, his expression plainly reading ‘I wouldn't mind being in the middle of that sandwich’, but he soon turns his attention to Borsalino again.

"Master Garp said the Reverie was some boring and pretentious crap." 

"That he did…? We-ell… pretentious yes," Borsalino concedes. He's certainly not going to contradict whatever wisdom Garp chooses to give on, but he had heard enough conversations in passing, paid a polite ear to enough high personalities, and put together enough strangely unfitting pieces to differ on 'boring' - many of them about the New Era, about Ohara and about Flevance earlier in the year. But he knows the World Nobles like him oblivious and calm, and for them, he will even put on his best dumb suit. “How nice that you stay in touch with Vice Admiral Garp…”

But the rest of his distraction maneuver is cut short by a shout.

“This guy is cheating,” a man says, tipsy laughter permeating his voice. "I don't believe for a second that he can be that lucky."

And then a gruff, calmly masculine voice between the chorus of remarks:

“Heh… well, well. You can call it luck.” 

“That means he's destined to bet your pants off, Cancer,” when he turns over, resting his elbows on the bar behind him and taking a swig, Borsalino sees it’s the perennially grinning Yamakaji who’s helpfully nodding, cigar sitting at the side of his mouth. 

"I just can't _fucking_ believe it."

The show is wildly appealing to the part of Borsalino that wants to let the beer and conversation wash away his petty worries.

“What’s all the fuss about?"

Kuzan tilts his head, scratching into his locks with a hand in thought. “That’s um… uh, what's his face. This new guy’s stationed here, he's always betting. Mostly, um, winning. He’s actually a pretty cool guy, when you talk to him.” 

Borsalino feels the thick beer warming him up. He turns around again, prepared to egg the confrontation on, when he notices that one of the betting officers, who has his Marine’s coat turned to him, has some… he squints… something poking its nose up from the fold of its arm.

A familiar brown nose tucked high in a white cloud of fur, two black, beady eyes.

Dog. _The_ Dog. The mop.

He arches his eyebrows, for once transparently, and idly reaches out for the package of cigarettes before remembering that he has none left.

“Oooh. Well look at that,” he mutters, and then hitching up his voice a notch, “Sa-ay, Kuzan, do you think the gambler has seen me?”

“See you? Arara… No, I don't think so, man. He's blind as a bat." 

* * *

When Dog’s new owner stands up from his spot, Borsalino, now alone, broods over the empty jar a bit longer, and finding he can't undo the knot at the back of his throat, decides to follow suit. 

Jealousy is a funny thing, when he sees himself through an outsider’s eyes. He has the same inexperience in it as Sakazuki had in their first sloppy kisses. Maybe if he wishes hard enough it will go away, this strangely sick feeling in his throat and between his ears. It’s distorted.

The park, where the blind man has been playing ball with Dog when Borsalino catches up with them, is a prairie circled by vegetation, its leaves rattling under the wind. Moss creeps over the statue of the then-noble who founded this town, a slice of nature uncaring to the history of those who attempt to tame it. There's something wild and unkempt about it, as if it had not been trimmed in a while, which makes Borsalino feel equally wildly out of place.

The man is sitting on a bench, long cane in hand, dressed more traditionally than your average Marine would. Without the scar tissue crossing out his eyesight, he’d have an affable, slightly handsome face. Ageless - he could be anywhere between twenty and forty.

And Dog is a white bullet on a green background, shooting up behind the ball and bringing it back dutifully. That mutt had been so incredibly bold as it had lived at Sakazuki’s, that seeing it do anything but barking and hopping around senselessly seems alien. Sakazuki had not managed to tame it the last time he’d seen them together; his commands would be interrupted by a few friendly bites on the hand, those prickly teeth that had poked holes in so many nice little things, and Sakazuki gave in too easily, too pained at whatever of himself he saw in Dog. As for Borsalino, it wasn’t his responsibility. Wasn’t that what a critter’s purpose was, being nervous and annoying? 

But now, if anything, it seems to bark only at the man’s command, signalling at him that it's done its job. In a way, taming a rebellious animal could be like taming a person. 

_Stooooooop,_ he chastises himself. _Stop stop stop stop._

The next time the ball is thrown, it disappears into thin air. So has Borsalino.

The swaying of Dog's tail becomes weaker, its legs tense and immobile at the interruption. When Borsalino reappears, it starts barking again, a child’s strident wail.

“Hey _yooou…_ ” Borsalino tries, his feet shuffling around the carpet of leaves on the ground, fishing for the most appropriate words to address it so that it doesn’t notice his immediate disgust. He can't believe he'll be approaching Dog the same way he talks to, heavens forbid anybody ever finds out, Celestial Dragons. "How… How is your new life, _frie-end_ …?" 

Dog dances around him, turns around in many little hops.

"Come, girl!”

Both jerk their heads up as Sakazuki's interesting acquaintance approaches. The beat of his cane accompanies his steps, the rhythm of chalk on a board. The dog, mouth wide open, trots to him: one could think it's almost laughing. From close enough, the man's face is older than his movements, roughened by thought. But when he looks up, the slight curve of his lips hints at a smile.

“Excuse me. Have you seen where my dog’s ball went? It can get tricky to search, here.”

"Hmmmm…" The slow utterance gives Borsalino time to choose his words carefully. "I, _lo-ook_ , here it is…" 

Borsalino throws the ball upwards once before returning it, pouting at the wetness and dirt remaining on his hand which he's soon vanished into nothing. He sees the other man's rough hands under the folds of his robe, a stark contrast to Borsalino’s soft skin - still that of a scholar, with the mark of battle having rarely torn through his light.

He adjusts his jacket and tilts his head at man and Dog.

"Cute thing… Aah, it's too bad I have no luck with _them…_ " 

The man returns his smile shily. First Borsalino thinks it's a strange sensation, looking at somebody with the certainty that one is not being seen. Then he is not so sure anymore. 

Then the younger officer scoffs. No - he chuckles. 

“It's the grin,” he says. 

Borsalino's brow knits in the middle, his mouth pursing into an offended 'o'. 

"Pardon _me-e…_?" 

"The teeth," he says, crouching to give Dog its ball back and scratch it between the ears, the animal pressing its head in the direction of the man’s hand. "They think you are baring your fangs. It’s a misunderstanding…"

"Ooh… That's so interesting… How do you _knooow_?"

"Man and dog speak different languages," he says. He, too, has the tone of a patient teacher. Borsalino purses his lips, feeling he can spare his lessons.

"I mean, how do you know I am smiling…?" 

"I can hear it," the man replies. "But… and only if you are who I think you are… Sakazuki told me you are always smiling. He had trouble with the dog and his grimace, too." 

Borsalino raises one very puzzled eyebrow. He's fifty-fifty on whether this weird bastard is yanking a reaction out of him.

 _Well well, so this is what it feels like._ He's got decades of karma to catch up with. 

"Oooh, you caught me off guard, there. Yes," he smiles affably and tilts his whole upper body to the side, as though dodging his own feelings. "Yes, I am Borsalino. Yes, I am with him… And who are you?" 

"Officer Issho. Sir," he nods respectfully. "I have only been stationed here for six months."

"Six months," Borsalino eachoes, mentally calculating the length of his own absence. "Ooh, how impressive. Thank you for taking care of…her. She _su-ure_ is demanding." 

"It's nice to have company. Dogs are very loyal and…" he chuckles, "... honest animals. We got on quickly, heh?" 

"We-eeell, that's a wonderful arrangement, everyone is happy~"

"Saka-san… The Vice Admiral Sakazuki, he's a great man," Issho says, his voice suddenly much more sober, in confidence between the two-and-a-half. "He's a ruthless man, but I have seen him. As have you, I suppose. Something like that deserves… to be nurtured." 

" _O-of_ course," His eyes have been narrowing to slits at the talk, but he doesn't want his pulse to become apparent in his voice. His hand stirs in his pocket and he brings it up to adjust his sunglasses. "Not everyone would do that." 

"Not everyone would give it away for its own good, either," Issho nods.

Borsalino is now outright frowning. There’s an irrational irritation plunging at the entrance of his lungs, as though he were smelling ammoniac. He wants to interrogate that man now, to pry that mouth open with his fingers and have it spew the secrets he seems to know about man and nature, about navigating Sakazuki in six months after Borsalino spent a lifetime wearing his defenses down.

When he opens his mouth, the wrong words come out.

* * *

The thinking machine is on as he makes his way back to Sakazuki’s little house in town, a modest building, its doorstep tiled and flanked by the bushes, pretty campanellas and geraniums, which Sakazuki cares for as a form of meditation. On the way he meets a few neighbors and colleagues and he stops, without exception, to exchange a few words with every of them with a polite smile and a nod. 

The same smile with which his dumb self just invited Issho over for coffee. 

Because it is not enough to see Issho himself. It's not enough to want to bury his head in the sand in shame whenever he thinks of Issho's humbly interesting presence, so diametrically opposed to Borsalino's reckless, strident nature. He needs to see them together, to see how they mesh. 

He drops himself on the couch upon entering, not having bothered to remove his tie, resting his head on two flexed arms and looking around. All of Sakazuki's furniture looks cheap or second-hand. Partly because he hardly would step out of the Marine base if it weren't for his plants, but partly too because of his saving mentality, shaped by his need to scrap money together during their early lives. 

But Borsalino has a taste for luxury. He'd redecorate the whole thing every other day were he to be stationed here permanently. Probably pester Sakazuki to move into a bigger place, one fit for his rank and for Borsalino's more expensive tastes. His influence is palpable in little details only - a painting offering a speck of colour in the barely decorated room, a cozy blanket left on a chair. He's slowly dug himself a place in Sakazuki's life like his things have made themselves a space in Sakazuki's house, stubborn, perseverant, uncalled for, until they wore down the resistance and became essential. 

But part of him does wonder if Sakazuki would've ever looked his way with anything other than disdain, had they not shared that life-long bond, one of blood and powder - their tragedy, their losses. 

What seems like endless hours later, he hears the key turn in the knob. 

"Here, Bors-" 

-but he's already pouncing on Sakazuki, whatever belongings he had on him scattering across the floor, every other priority in the world falling a distant second to Borsalino’s need to feel him as though, by way of physical proof, Borsalino could seize him in place, assert that he's there to stay and that they will break every single law of physics and rationality by sheer force of will to _be_ , and to be together, sending the odds and the boundaries to hell. 

Hours later, they are still messily tangled up in each other. The cozy blanket did come in handy in the end, with Sakazuki only half under it and Borsalino enjoying both its velvety touch and Sakazuki's warmth. The sofa’s cold fabric is not invented to sleep naked on it,though.

Borsalino has only crawled away from his comfortable spot to steal a cigarette from Sakazuki’s pocket and peer back at him from another angle. He is Adonisian under the soft play of light and shadow, the tattoo darkened into black, tracing the perfectly sculpted muscles. Borsalino has touched them a thousand times, and he wouldn’t mind doing it again. 

Perhaps another night, since grogginess is starting to weigh on their eyes. But there’s something he needs to mention before sleeping.

"I met Issho today." 

"Issho," Sakazuki says. No variation in his usual, husky growl. "What about him?" 

"He's a very interesting person. How did you meet?" 

"Some guys at a bar giving him shit. Didn't know he was a Marine, and neither did I," he flares his nostrils at the thought. "Turns out he could've handed them their asses himself, if he'd cared for it. He was wasting my time." 

Borsalino feels a short surge of vindication, which dies down under the weight of the next words.

"He's an exceptional man. Very honest." 

_Of course he is_. 

Borsalino hums and finds his preferred spot nuzzling against the curve of _his_ husband's shoulder. 

* * *

The next morning is sunny, but a cold breeze pulls through the room as they wake up to a slight rush. Sakazuki has peeled himself from Borsalino with the reluctant promise to finish punctually today - if he is not called for duty, that is. Borsalino would pout at the possibility under other circumstances, but he'll have to relent. As long as it’s only justice standing between the two of them. 

A few hours later he's carrying groceries back home - he realizes that, when it comes down to it, he doesn't make much use of the house without Sakazuki either, instead preferring to improvise company and eat around town, but he's stocking up his reserves in case that _other person_ , and his little Dog, do decide to drop by. Borsalino will cover this Issho with interest and praise, show the quiet young man that he is so secure in his love for Sakazuki, in the role as the light of his life, that he doesn't care or worry about Issho's magnetic pull on his attention.

Nah, he doesn't. It's good he doesn't. 

Kill him with niceness.

He's fumbling with the weight of paper bags in his arms at Sakazuki's doorstep when he hears the shouting come from inside. 

"Once again, the end doesn't always justify the means!" 

He is taken aback, and lingers on the doorstep for a moment, his shadow playing along. For a split second, he’d thought Kuzan had dropped by, but that was most definitely not Kuzan’s calm baritone shouting. They'd never breach that topic anyway, not again, not after every argument has escalated.

He is tempted to eavesdrop, but instead swings the door open and sings a half-hearted _haaaalloooo_.

Their kitchen is modest, barely spacey enough for two, let alone for three and a half. The smell of the orange he’d gnarled with cloves and left on the table has been replaced by that of smoke and herbal tea; Sakazuki is standing against the counter, his hands securing him to the wooden edge. Dog is curled simply on his feet. Issho sits at the small wooden table, hands wrapped on the top of his cane, the chair almost wholly disappeared under his broad figure.

Borsalino’s eyes shift from one to the other. The glare of sunlight fills every corner of the kitchen, but he supposes, when one is blind and the other two are willfully oblivious, there is no one to see it.

"Ooh, don't be so scary, you two… What's going on in here…?"

"We are just talking," Sakazuki scowls. 

"It has all begun,” Issho starts, “by talking about the Reverie. I find it a shame that so many resources go to it. Protecting nobles who mostly already have their own armies and displacing so many Marines from their posts as a result." 

Borsalino crosses his arms and leans against the kitchen counter. 

"I don't disagree," Sakazuki crouches over, scoops the Dog up, tiny like a mouse in those massive hands. "But if indulging a few nobles is what it takes to coordinate our efforts in eradicating piratery, then so should it be." 

"Our priorities as a Navy are wrong. I don't think it's possible to be completely uncorrupted without changes to the way the system works." 

Borsalino sways right next to Sakazuki, his mouth a dissatisfied, neutral line. Sakazuki's hand caresses his side idly, absently.

Borsalino swipes the cigar from Sakazuki's hand to bite down on it and exhales the smoke into the already dense atmosphere. His partner does not react, instead lifting an accusatory finger at Issho. 

"You question too much, you smug idiot. You can't start by changing the system. There is a balance and a reason why it's in place." 

"The way it works facilitates the suffering of thousands." 

"To save hundreds of thousands!" 

As a last resource, Borsalino considers approaching the window and conveniently putting his butter hands around the carefully groomed plant sitting on its ledge. The thought makes him grin with mischief. He won't act on it - it's not war yet. 

"One exceptional case should not set the rules for all, Sakazuki! It does not exime a lifetime of wasted resources. We are at the people's service, and we should act like it. "We should strive for perfection!" 

Instead of letting any actual opinion trickle into his expression, Borsalino muses, 

"Mmmm… this conversation is _to-oo_ intense for cake."

To his surprise, Issho erupts in hearty laughter. 

"Wait, there's cake?" 

Borsalino finds himself smiling back. 

Then he stands up and Dog is suddenly at his feet at the sound of rummaging bags of paper and, probably, the smell of food at its little dog nostrils. It sits and looks at Borsalino straight, and when he speaks, it tilts its head sharply to the side thinking it's being addressed. 

"It will be," he concedes, "a very interesting day if one of you rise to power." 

"We will both," Sakazuki says as though it were already granted. "And you, too. You won’t be escaping your responsibilities."

* * *

Conversing with him about work, and life, and fate, Borsalino comes close a few times to assessing that he is just a weary idealist, that Issho. Who happens to speak dog language like another could play piano, or be skilled at math, one in a million of weary idealists with uninteresting quirks. 

… but then he hears the tremble of thrill in his voice when talking about the future. Or notices the wolfish edge to his smile. And remembers the truth hidden in plain sight - if he is morally incorruptible, and if he intends to do good with his power once he seizes it, what the hell does he get from betting that much? It takes a thief to catch another, and Borsalino has been decades in the business.

They sense and weigh one another, two sides of a coin standing on its edge, two complimentary colours, two titans debating over the Earth and the course and shape it should take.

Maybe the moment will come, in that story of theirs that is yet to be written, where the coin will tip to the side and a trial by combat will be in order.

Until then it’s coffee and cake.

When Issho leaves, preceded by a dull trail of sound and followed by Dog and its tiny nails tapping on the floor, Borsalino decompresses his lungs. Sakazuki sits still, deeply frowning, having sunk his Marine’s cap on his head, staring at the flow of smoke from his cigar without really seeing it. Borsalino can practically hear the engine of his thought machine on overload.

He presses his lips in empathy, circles his arms around Sakazuki’s neck.

There is no better version of him hidden somewhere, waiting to be called up to the surface. If Sakazuki's mission is to preserve Justice, Borsalino’s mission must be to preserve Sakazuki, and if this means the world he saves will be a ruthless place, then so be it. The tormentors in their past had no mercy either. Picturing a Sakazuki giving up his passionate fight, to picture doubt crawling its way into his firm security in battle, to have his force leashed at the service of anything, even if the end result was a simpler life… is terrible.

He can save the world, but the world can't have him. 

He places a kiss on the back of Sakazuki's head. 

"Too much social interaction for a day?" 

"Keep your sarcasm," he mutters. 

"I'll keep you," Borsalino replies. "You are mine."

* * *

"He's being weird again- I have no time for this. Borsalino, come in." 

Sakazuki's coarse call from inside the office startles him. He has been staring at the wooden decor of its door for a while, hands in his pockets, realising that he still hasn't come up with an excuse to knock on it, or… phase into it unannounced, if you’re in the mood for realism.

He pushes the door to the side, swinging with a subtle creak, and steps in warily. Too dark, the oxygen in the air scarce, the ambience too charged. The only glow comes from a lamp close to Sakazuki, throwing harsh light and shadow on the forms of his desk; piles of reference books, an empty mug of coffee, and his snail line. 

"What are you waiting for?,” he asks. His voice is charged with the tension of a looming argument. “Sit.”

Borsalino obeys.

But if there's war on the horizon, he has to fire the first shot.

"Who are you talking to about me?" 

Sakazuki frowns and diverts his sight. He motions to the table. To the snail. Borsalino tilts his head to the side, about to protest the non-answer, when he notices the snail is awake, but not on the line with any other. Instead, its slimy body turns over a leaf of cabbage. 

His eyebrows join in the middle and the words vanish. Sakazuki, however, crosses his massive arms behind the table, his fine lips a displeased line.

"When you became a Vice Admiral. Did you want me to put in a good word for you?" He scowls at Borsalino, and sensing the incoming protest, tears it at the root. "Yes or no? And if yes, then why the hell did you say you didn't want me to?" 

Borsalino's lips freeze. 

"Did I?" 

"Yes, you jackass, you did. You were waiting to be transferred here for a few years before I became an Admiral and we went back to Marineford? Remember?” He spits out the next words not without effort, one at a time, through almost gritted teeth. "Issho thought I should-- talk. To you. About this." 

"Of _cooourse_ he did..."

"See, _that_ ," Sakazuki is not as much looking at him as through him, his jaw clenched in rigid disapproval. "Damn it. I know what this is about. It's because he earned it and you didn't, isn't it? Your Devil's Fruit. I haven't given a flying fuck about that our whole lives. I won't start now." 

Borsalino is prepared to throw his words right back at him, but then, he lets them sink in. Pauses.

Something between that and the snail lazily feasting on a fresh leaf tugs at his heart.

Maybe Sakazuki is not the one out of the two whose temperament needs a firm hand to dominate it, or whose thoughts, growing in number like mayflies, need some grounding. 

Sakazuki is not the undisciplined dog in his little mental allegory.

"I am," Borsalino mutters. "I am the poodle." 

A beat. "What?"

"Nothing. You are right,” he nods, imitating the fold of Sakazuki’s arms, going for the thoughtfully convinced look. “It's nice to hear it from you. And I'm happy that someone is up to your standards.”

Sakazuki turns his head down.

“Yes. Then stop hanging out outside the door. I'll come home soon.”

Home.

Borsalino complies.

For a moment, between standing up and turning around, he feels a strong inclination to make another remark. Something Sakazuki will remember and repeat the next time he's with Issho, poignant and subtly insulting, planting the seeds of the next strategy in an awkward cold war he may be imagining.

But, as he vanishes into his immaterial form and into the high of atomic flight, he allows himself to stop planning and be just a fool in love for once.


End file.
